Falling Down
by ChosenOfAshurha
Summary: Sherlock's deepest wish is for a friend. Luckily for him, dreams come true. A StarJohn story.
1. Falling Down

Sherlock never expected his wish to be granted. He was seven, he was aware he should have known better- Mycroft would have laughed if he heard Sherlock's whispered words as he knelt beside his window. The curly-haired young boy looked up at the sky, something almost wistful in his gaze.

_Please. _

A trail of golden light caught his eyes and he watched as it arced through the inky sky and toward the garden- his mother's garden. Sherlock couldn't pull his little boots on fast enough. He grabbed Dorsie (_apis dorsata, _Mycroft had whispered in his ear) and hurried down the steps to the back door. _A meteor! A real meteor! I wonder how big it is! _Sherlock crept toward the crater, marveling at the warm golden light shining in its depths. _Is it still on fire? I can get a bucket if I need- _

"Oh!"

He gasped and stumbled back, falling on his bottom in his surprise. There was a _boy _in the hole, a little boy without clothes, and _he… _He was glowing!

"That's not possible," Sherlock whispered, shaking his head. "Boys don't fall from the sky. I must be dreaming." He gave his arm a pinch and winced- but the world didn't change. The little blond boy was still curled up in the dirt, letting off light as if it were perfectly normal.

_Could it be? Did I wish you here? _

Sherlock pushed himself up to his knees and brushed away the soil sticking to Dorsie. "Hello?" One little step, and then another. "Are you hurt?" Closer.

The boy began to stir. He sat up and shook his head, send little showers of sparkles falling to the earth. At first he seemed not to notice Sherlock as he rose on unsteady feet, focusing entirely on getting himself mobile. There was a scrape on his knee and a little cut on his chest- the fall had injured him a little.

"I… I'm Sherlock, and this is Dorsie."

The boy looked up at him and gasped, his blue eyes growing wide.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes. Do you have a name?"

He shook his head. "No."

Sherlock stuck out his lower lip. "Everything has a name. Don't worry, I'll find you one."

The boy from the star took two steps and fell on his knees. Behind him, Sherlock could see a trail of golden light shimmering on the damp grass. "Are you alright? You look hurt. I can take you inside, you're a bit little for my clothes but-"

His words were cut off as the boy crawled forward and pressed a kiss to his nose. Sherlock's cheeks turned red as he stared at him in shock. "W-what was that for?"

"You're my friend," the glowing boy answered matter-of-factly. Sherlock reached up and touched the spot, his fingers coming away with a bit of a glow. _Friend… It came true… _

He reached out and took the boy's hand in his own. "Come on, follow me! I know it's late, but I can get you bandages for your scrapes and then I can show you my bedroom!" He was excited for the first time in… well, ever. Mycroft'd been too busy to play for months, and ever since Redbeard went to the farm…

_I've been so alone. _

_Not anymore, though. _

—-

In the bathroom, Sherlock stood on his tiptoes to get the little first aid box from above the sink. His stool was a little too short, his hands just out of reach. "Hang on… I've almost…"

The star-boy tugged on Sherlock's jacket and shook his head.

"No."

He rose up off the edge of the tub and floated up to the cabinet, while Sherlock gaped at him. _That's impossible, people don't-_

_He's not a person, he's a star. He's something magic. _

Too old for pirates, too old for make-believe, that's what Mycroft said. Sherlock should be studying, Sherlock should be keeping up with his violin, Sherlock was being _silly. _He'd heard it so many times, it had to be true, didn't it? But this boy was _real, _he was _flying, _he had gold streaks in his hair and left pretty little dust wherever he went. He came from the sky, just for Sherlock, just to answer his wishes.

_He's mine. _

He pointed to the box and the boy handed it to him, smiling proudly.

"You're a good helper, you know. Sit down and let me fix your bumps."

The boy resumed his place on the tub, shivering as the porcelain touched his skin. Sherlock knelt before him and got out two bandages from the little white kit. He pressed one over his knee and the other over the cut on his chest.

"I landed on a rock," he whispered. "It… it didn't feel very good."

"Rocks usually don't," Sherlock replied with a grin. He kissed each bandage and helped the boy to his feet. "Are you cold?"

"No. I keep myself warm."

Sherlock frowned. "But the bath-"

"It felt… strange. Smooth, and cold, and it surprised me. I'm fine."

"Don't they have baths where you're from?" He shook his head. Sherlock took his hand again and led him into his bedroom. His toys were packed away in his treasure chest, the walls were lined with shelves of books and posters of anatomy, bugs, and scientific tables. He understood the elemental table less than Mycroft did, but he'd nearly had it memorized. The boy crawled onto his bed and patted the space beside him.

"Are you tired? You feel from the sky, I figure I should probably ask… I bet that wasn't a very fun trip."

His new friend giggled. The sound was high and tinkling, like the ringing of small bells. "Yes, I'm tired." He floated off the mattress and waved his hands. A small golden cloud formed beneath him, soft and fluffy and inviting.

"Clouds aren't solid," Sherlock blurted.

"Mine are. They're magic."

"But… You should sleep in my bed. I can get you some pants, and we can have a proper sleepover. Playing can come tomorrow, I can't wait to show you my costume-"

The boy was yawning, tiny sparkles falling from his lips. "What are pants?"

"Underwear. Don't you have clothes at home?"

"I don't know what that is."

Sherlock frowned. "Clothes? Or home?"

"Both."

"… Everyone has a home…"

The boy shook his head again, his dust shining in the light of his skin. "I don't have a home. Or a name. I just… am."

Sherlock reached forward and tugged his cloud over the bed. It was soft beneath his fingers, like spun sugar, and so warm to the touch… "Wait here." He disappeared into his closet. When he came back, he had a pair of bright red pants in his hand. "These haven't been worn, they're too small for me. Maybe they'll fit you. Just step into them, pull them up to your hips."

He did as Sherlock instructed, looking at them with a curious expression. "I like them."

Sherlock beamed. "Now, come lay down with me? I've never had a sleepover before, the boys in the village don't like me very much."

"I like you, Sherlock."

_My eyes are… damp? What is this? _

"I like you too."

The glowing little boy crawled under the covers beside him and made the cloud disappear.

"John," Sherlock whispered.

"Huh?"

"You need a name. And a home. I'm going to call you John, and this can be your home. With me."

"John," he repeated with a sleepy smile. "That's a good name. I'm your John."

Sherlock squeezed his hand. "Goodnight, John."

_My friend. Mine. John._


	2. Growing Up

John had been by his side for years. He chased away the darkness, he kept Sherlock away from the temptations of isolation and drugs, he used his magic to heal every scraped knuckle and black eye and split lip Sherlock came home with. John was patient. John was kind. John was growing more beautiful every day.

It was very hard to take a glowing boy with threads of thick gold in his hair for a haircut, so he was starting to look a little shaggy. Sherlock had tried to cut it himself, once… it was a disaster. The scissors couldn't cut through the glowing strands, so it was uneven and choppy and John had pouted for a week. After it evened out. he promised he wouldn't go near his hair for a trim. Sherlock sometimes wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through it again, like he had so many years ago.

John was shorter than Sherlock, and broader, surprisingly muscular for a boy that chose to float everywhere. He usually wore loose denims and sweaters when he could be bothered to put clothes on, and Sherlock always thought they looked rather at home on his frame. Sometimes, he wondered what it would be like to take them off of him, despite the fact he knew what every inch of his body looked like.

Unlike people, John bathed in the light of the moon. "It just reflects light," he'd corrected Sherlock one night as they stared up at the stars, "but it's… it feels different, to me, than the sun. It's nicer. Cleaner. Something about how silver it is… Does that sound weird?" Sherlock assured him he made absolutely no sense and they laughed until their sides hurt. Sometimes Sherlock would watch him, hovering in the air and sliding his hands over his skin.

John had started to stare. Sherlock remembered the day it began down to the exact second- April sixth, six fifteen in the afternoon, forty-three segments past the minute. They were down at the creek and Sherlock was wet from head to toe, hands clasped around a toad with a wide grin on his face. "I'm going to catalogue the effects of fire on dead, wet tissue!" He had called, turning to look at John. John's eyes had been fixed on them, glowing with warm gold light that made the stormy blues of his irises stand out in stark relief. He was smiling as though he were daydreaming. Sherlock wondered if John would look at him like that again, like he was the maddest, most brilliant boy he'd ever seen.

He licked his lips twenty-nine times as he floated above Sherlock. Sherlock reclined on his bed with his eyes closed, but he knew. He knew the sound of John's tongue sliding over his mouth. He played it in the halls of his mental palace over and over, dissecting every tone. Beside him, the bed creaked. John had come down. John was wrapping one strong arm over Sherlock's bare chest.

"Sherlock…" He breathed.

"Yes, John?"

"You're incredible."

Sherlock turned his head and smiled at him. "Thank you, John."

John shook his head, sending golden dust scattering. "No, Sherlock, you don't understand. I… I can't stop thinking about you. You're always on my mind, in the… in very strange ways."

"Strange how?"

"… I want to taste you."

Sherlock's breath caught in his chest. "You… taste? I don't…"

"May I?"

He looked up into John's eyes, searching out the sincerity in his gaze. "… Yes…"

John cupped Sherlock's jaw with one warm hand and pressed their lips together. Sherlock reached up and threaded his fingers through the star-boy's hair, letting out a low moan. _Soft, so soft, and so warm… You taste like lavender and honey, like strawberries and cream, like everything sweet I've ever sampled all at once. _The boy slipped his tongue into his mouth and gripped his curls, the gentle kiss quickly turning desperate. There was a need Sherlock hadn't anticipated, and it made his blood boil.

"John," he whispered when they parted, foreheads resting against one another. "John." It was as if he was naming him all over again, discarding the innocence of their childhood and opening the door to _this, _whatever this happened to be.

"Sherlock," John replied with a giggle.

"…What?"

"Your lips," he said, voice soft and almost breathless. "They're gold."


End file.
